


The Weight of Truth

by laughingtoucan



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Dragon Age: Origins - Return to Ostagar DLC, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27297802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingtoucan/pseuds/laughingtoucan
Summary: Lots of Wardens, lots of angst.During Return to Ostagar, but before treaties can be invoked.
Kudos: 2





	The Weight of Truth

The warmth of the fire did little to soothe the ache brought by Ostagar’s biting cold. And less still eased the bitter disappointment in having only found the remains of their King and nothing of Duncan, spare for his blades.

At the very least, it felt good to close one chapter of their story before proceeding to the next. Cailan has been given his last rites and sent off with as much respect as they could give him so far from home. They’d all settled for the night in a spot far enough from the Tower of Ishal to put anxieties at ease, in a patch less snowy than what Ostagar had become since their first pass through it.

Though at least for tonight, everyone in camp was more than willing to give the Wardens a wide berth for the evening and let them lick their collective wounds. It was a willing reprieve from the stress that had begun swiftly mounting on them.

Garner the attention and cooperation of a literal nation? Raise an army? Defeat scores of darkspawn and slaw an archdemon? From a distance, the tasks seemed insurmountable.

But those fears could wait until tomorrow.

The bottles passed between them probably could have better use in the belly of another, but it helped them unwind.

Their mage, Lycus, sat awfully close to the younger of the Cousland brothers, and offered a welcome distraction by means of company and questions, all of which Hobbes was eager to answer.

“—maybe I’ll just wind up breeding mabari or something. I don’t have a claim to anything of the family’s and I don’t want it. We raised them on the side though—I think I’d like that.”

Nearby, Steve—the ‘mabari with the people name’, snorted in his sleep and wiggled, rolling out onto his back with his massive forelimbs and paws folded up atop him. Hobbes smiled, leaning his shoulder into Lycus’s.

In the spirit of warming things up, Hobbes passed the sentiment along, eager to learn about the other wardens that Duncan had collected. “What about you, Aravas? What are you going to do after this?”

The elf snapped up from his own bottle, surprised by the sudden call to him, then blinked, eyes darting for a moment before the question really sunk in. “I don’t really know. I just...I feel like part of me is still in shock. Broken, even. Maybe.”

“Ostagar?”

His gaze sunk back into his bottle, his expression not entirely readable. “No.” He licked his lips, a small, nervous gesture as he fought to weight exactly how much he should speak. “It’s elves. I...I feel like I’ve finally seen how far we’ve fallen and...it’s a lot to process.”

When a collective silence answered him, he gave a hushed, but pained laugh. So he elaborated. “An arl’s son and his thuggish friends came to the weddings of my cousin and I. Uninvited of course. They took the brides. Bridesmaids. Anything they thought had a face pretty enough and a pussy fit to fuck.”

Gaze fixed downward, he couldn’t see the uncomfortable expressions being passed around. No one was ready for what would come next, but bringing it up uncorked something in Aravas, like a crack forming in a levee. It had to get out, regardless of how he or they felt.

His fingers folded tightly around the neck of his bottle, the surface of the wine inside glinting as the dancing light from the fire played along the length of the colored glass.

“When we found them in the arl’s palace, they’d already killed one of the women. They’d raped another. And the arl’s son had the gall to offer us money to leave. Forty sovereigns in our pockets to turn around and walk away.” His lip quivered, brows knitted together.

“And Soris, he turns to me and I can see in his eyes he’s paralyzed. ‘Cousin,’ he said, ‘That’s a lot of money.’ Said it like we hadn’t just walked over a corpse of a women we knew to reach that point. Like there wasn’t another on the floor sobbing and shaking.” Aravas held the pause with such concept and disgust, and then repeated—

“ _That’s a lot of money_.”

He laughed, louder this time, the edge sharp and ugly. “It broke my heart. He’s kin, blood kin, we’d grown up laughing and playing together and he turns to me in that moment and he was prepared to let those monsters glut themselves on our people, our family.” He came up, looking across from him, searching for anyone who could relate.

“I didn’t know him. How could you know anyone after that? And all because someone decided we were gutter scum. That something had preselected us for inferiority.” He sniffled and stopped, catching himself before his emotions could fully spill over. Gave himself a moment to reign it all in. And he tried again...

“I...I can’t just let that be. You know? We have to save the world. It’s a tall order and somehow we’ll do it. We have to. But after that...I can’t do nothing. After this—I guess I’ll try and fix it all. Somehow. I can’t live without at least trying. We deserve better.”

Hobbes, though brutally sympathetic, had no idea how to tackle the subject head on, so attempted with all the subtlety that a rogue has: with a glancing strike from the side—

“Can’t top that.” He took a swig large enough to really burn on the way down and wound up coughing, his voice rougher for it. “If there’s a tragic hero here, you’ve won that spot, full honors. Dead parents can’t beat systematic oppression.”

Lyall shook his head in agreement with his younger brother, “No argument.”

Aeducan put up his hands, “Framed for fratricide, still can’t top that.”

The branded dwarf, Donnar shrugged, but fell in all the same, “Same hat, knife-ear, you just wear it better.”

Lycus snorted at the sentiment, mirroring it, “Same hat—though to take it more literally, have any of you seen what they try to make mages wear? Ugliest hats.”

Group consensus returned with a shared groan. No one wanted a mage hat.

Hobbes raised the bottle he and Lycus shared, coaxing the rest to do the same. “Everybody now—bottles up for Aravas. Good man. Best man.”

“Bottles up—“ came the group, who all responded in kind. Drinks raised, they toasted, then drank, still aching from their struggles, but now a bit closer for it.

**Author's Note:**

> —and are they drinking all of the booze gifts you’re supposed to give to Ogren?
> 
> Absolutely.


End file.
